


Through the waves

by theplaidchesters



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cockles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplaidchesters/pseuds/theplaidchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Misha hosts a popular satirical news radio show. There’s a segment where Misha takes calls from his listeners so they can share their opinions and ask questions. One particular caller, who frequently calls in and has a deep, low voice, captures Misha interest.</p><p>Pretty much based - though not entirely, as you will see - on tumblr user dmitricockles's meme (http://dmitricockles.tumblr.com/post/42910362451/cockles-au-meme-misha-hosts-a-popular-satirical)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the waves

The music—a smooth jazz orchestra playing one of Miles Davis’s greatest hits—is cut in a very subtle way, and a soft tune is placed as background when the show starts over. The intro of the night news rings into the cabin and the guy behind the glass shows his fingers: in five, four, three, two…

“Welcome back, folks! This is your host, Misha, back again from our brief and necessary break! I hope you’ve all enjoyed the song… we’re listening now to The Lumineers, _Flowers in your hair_. So, we’ve arrived to the special moment of the evening. This also means the show is about to end but fear not, mishamigos! I’ll try to make room for everyone.”

The phone starts ringing and Misha smiles. “Remember to call and share anything you have in mind: opinions, questions, confessions… you can criticize me all you want as long as it’s not my taste in music.” He pushes the green button, leaning back against his chair. “Hey, caller! What’s on your mind?”

“Your taste in music is fantastic.”

And oh, that voice. “Well, look who it is. Our favorite regular, the mysterious caller!”

“Led Zeppellin… you definitely need to add Led Zeppellin to your playlist.”

“I’ll consider it, just because it’s you who’s suggesting it,” he replies, teasingly.

The caller hums and that does not do things to Misha’s guts. “Listening to your show has softened me with all your Davis and King Cole. I even sing Etta James when I’m showering. You’re making me look bad, man.”

He really, really tries not to picture a hot dude in the shower and singing _I’d rather go blind_. He really tries. “I demand an immediate apology, sir,” Misha retorts, his voice filled with fake offense behind the humongous grin he’s wearing. “Those gentlemen made real music; not all the crap going around the radio stations these days.”

“I agree,” the caller says, and Jesus, his voice is extra raspy today. It sounds rough and somewhat weary but still incredibly hot. Misha closes his eyes, too lost in the way the caller speaks, lost beneath the waves of the melodic sound and his peaceful breathing. He smiles without noticing. He’s been doing it a lot, according to people. The staff teases him a lot: "Oh, yeah, the reason of his happiness is an anonymous listener who has a very raspy and low voice."

Great.

The caller speaks again. Misha’s waken up from his now every-day fantasy: he's lying on a bed, eyes closed and body unclothed, while some male person with no face, who possessed the caller’s deep voice, repeats his name over and over again. He almost falls off his chair when the caller's voice fills up the room. “I saw you created your Twitter account,” he says.

“I did, I did!” Misha exclaims, coughing a little. “I think it’d be easier for you guys to contact me and send me your questions and comments, you know? That way you could, I don’t know, suggest some topics, songs, bands… it should be fun.”

"I just tweeted you something... but don't read it now. Save it for later," the caller says, and Misha swears he's flustered to the bone. "I'm the one with the J, the good-looking one with sunglasses on. You shouldn't miss me."

Misha snorts. "I'll check it out later."

“I like your display picture, though. Your eyes are really unfair.”

This is not good. “Um, thanks,” he answers, a little taken aback.

“It kinda makes me wonder how someone as handsome as yourself, is still single?”

And yes, his coworkers are laughing their asses off.

His throat is closing and he can’t breathe. It happens to him sometimes, when he gets really nervous or has a lot of stress on his shoulders; he’d tense and feel sick, as if he were to vomit—which is stupid, because he’s a fucking radio show host. He shouldn’t be afraid of talking to people. He doesn’t even know the dude’s goddamn face.

He realizes, maybe a little too late, that he’s been silent for almost three full minutes. Their colleagues are still laughing, which makes him blush furiously but hey, if the guy wants to play, game on.

“Oh, do I hear an offer somewhere in that question?”

_Did he really—?_

The caller’s voice hitches, it goes to a halt. _Oh, God, I’m totally gonna get fired for sexual harassment_ , he thinks, because seriously, who says stuff like that with the ON AIR sign turned on? _I’m so screwed; I’m screwed, screwed, screwed…_

“Well, that’s for you to decide, huh?”

And Misha grins wider and wider, and his cheeks hurt and there’s definitely something wrong with him because he’s flirting with a _dude_ on a _national_ radio show.

“In that case, I’d like to accept the offer,” he mutters like a schoolgirl. On the other side of the glass, their coworkers are biting their fists to muffle their laughter. “If you listen carefully, you can hear me blush profusely.”

“Oh, man, I wish I could see that,” he says in that sultry voice of his. “And, buddy, you’re not screwed. Although if you let me, I could—“

“Oh my God, I’m gonna hang up now.”

—

Of course he’s teased during the rest of the show. He gets text messages, tweets and calls congratulating him and the mysterious caller for their upcoming date. “It’s not a date, fellas, calm your tits,” he says over and over again. It’s not a date because, one, they don’t know each other; two, Misha doesn’t even know the caller’s name, and three, it’s very unlikely of him to go out with complete strangers. He doesn’t do that—blind dates are nightmares he does not wish to repeat.

But later that night, when he checks his brand new Twitter account and tries to find THAT tweet, there’s definitely that catches his eye. The picture shows a man on his late twenties, tanned skin and pilot sunglasses, smiling brightly to the camera. _That's totally a selfie,_ Misha muses, but his mouth goes dry because _holy shit:_ Good looking one? That man is _steaming hot_. The tweet reads:

  
**JENSEN** @jackles— @mishaboo: hey, i’ll b expecting that date. don’t leave me hanging man. i was totally serious about it.

And Misha smiles, changes his clothes and goes to bed, resting the phone on his chest, next to his heart; it beats incredibly fast, wild like an animal, and Misha doesn’t care if he looks like a teenager, because he finally knows the name—and did he mention the face?—of his late night caller, the one with the raspy voice and excellent taste in music, witty remarks and well-cultured comments. “His name is Jensen,” he whispers. Ackles?, he wonders when he notices the username. Jensen Ackles? It does have a nice ring to it.

When his fingers stop shaking, he manages to follow him back and tweet a response:

  
**Misha Collins** @mishaboo— @jackles: I always keep my promises. If you keep saying nice things to me, I might take the first step ;)

He falls asleep almost right away, but later, when he wakes up, he’d find a Direct Message with Jensen’s Facebook account and Skype username. And of course, he’d call again, and again and again, until they finally meet.

**Author's Note:**

> I previously posted this on my tumblr page but since I'm on a somewhat hiatus, I decided to give writing a chance. I made some tiny changes to make it prettier but heh, judge yourself. This fanfic is not beta'd and English is definitely NOT my first language, so désolée for my mistakes.


End file.
